


Soldier

by owlinaminor



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Misogyny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-20
Updated: 2015-01-20
Packaged: 2018-03-08 08:20:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3202202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlinaminor/pseuds/owlinaminor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day that Steve Rogers pilots an airplane into the Arctic, Peggy Carter cries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldier

**Author's Note:**

> the next thing I write for this fandom will be peggy/angie fluff, I promise.

The day that Steve Rogers pilots an airplane into the Arctic, Peggy Carter cries.

She doesn’t do it at the time – not in the middle of the base, with men all around watching her with trepidation as though she’ll break if they dare to leave her alone.  No, there, she closes her eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, and asks if there are any other jobs that need doing.

Later, she goes to the bathroom for five minutes – knows the men are all expecting to hear sobs – and reapplies her lipstick.  Schools her face into a perfect mask of professionalism.  Doesn’t allow them to give her sympathy.  Peggy Carter is a soldier, but she is a woman, and she knows that if she is careless enough to show weakness for even a second, that first title will be revoked.

It is only in her room that night, with all the lights out and the men far gone, that she allows herself to grieve.  She puts on an old record, one of Steve’s favorites, takes out a bottle of red wine she’d been saving for a special occasion, and imagines what it might be like to dance with him.  He’d step on her toes, of course – he’d apologize and apologize for it, he’d smile that wide smile everyone thought was so innocent but she knows is only his way of getting out of trouble, he’d make her laugh with his ridiculous moves, he’d hold her so tight even through the fast songs, and he’d –

He’ll never do any of that, because he is freezing slowly beneath the ocean and she is freezing slowly on an army base.

_It’s all right,_ she tells herself.  _It’s all right.  He saved the world.  He protected his people.  He would want you to be proud._   And she _is_ proud, but she wishes she could tell him in person.

She washes out the wine stains and the tear stains early the next morning, before anyone else would think to go do laundry.

* * *

Almost everywhere she turns, people are expecting her to break down.

It’s quite frustrating, honestly.  For years, she’s worked to show the men around her – because words have never been enough – that she’s just as capable as any of them, and now, one tragedy and she can’t get a meal in the cafeteria without people expecting her to sob, “This was Steve’s _favorite_!” into her mashed potatoes.  She has to go to the ladies’ alone, because otherwise, girls will try to give her advice about the best foundation to hide tear stains.  Even after the twentieth time she mentions Steve without sobbing, the people listening still pause, waiting for something to snap.

The only ones who don’t expect so little of her are the Commandos, and she’s thankful for that.  She’s thankful that they’ll ask her to get drinks with them, defer to her authority on missions, talk about Steve like an old friend, not an example to be followed.  Still, there’s something in their eyes – they’re still so sympathetic, as though one kiss and the promise of a dance gives her any more right to grieve than it gives them.

She turns down their offers of drinks, most nights.  Without Steve there to remind them that she’s a friend and comrade who just happens to be a woman, it’s not quite the same.

* * *

They ask her to speak at the funeral.

The General is so persuasive, with all of his, “There will be no other women speaking!” and “It will be so powerful to hear about his bravely, coming from you!”  He smiles at her, as though that would make any difference.  It’s too fake, and she knows it.

“I will make a speech,” she says, “but only if you introduce me not as Peggy Carter, Captain America’s girlfriend, but as Agent Carter, Captain Rogers’ colleague.”

The General stutters at that.  Vague words, no meaning – like everything people say to her, these days.

“I thought so,” she tells him.  He’s still floundering for words when she turns on her heel and marches out.

* * *

She wears red to the funeral.

Well, not all red – she wears her best black dress, black heels, and the darkest pantyhose she has, anything less would be disrespectful.  But she puts on the same bright lipstick as always, a red camisole beneath her dress, and a tiny American flag pin.

She knows people are staring.  Some with disgust – _how dare she not mourn him properly_ – some with sympathy – _look at her, so brave and so regal in the face of everything_ – and a few with morbid anticipation – _maybe now, she’ll finally break._   She doesn’t care.  Let them look.  There’s nothing for them to see, except the poised professionalism she has always upheld.

There are speeches, of course: long, boring speeches from men Steve never said more than ten words to about his bravery, his patriotism, his determination.  They speak of the great deeds he’s done and completely neglect his lovely smile, his laugh, his sense of humor, his creativity, his ability to come up with the best pranks she’s ever seen.

Peggy lifts her chin, stands up straight, and listens – and thinks, as hard as she can, _Steve, I’m sorry.  Steve, I love you.  Steve, if no one else does, I will remember you – not as a hero, but as a man._

* * *

After the war, she gets a job with the SSR in New York City.

It’s an unfamiliar city, so much louder and more hectic than London was – but it’s Steve’s city, and every time she turns a corner and sees a group of children playing in the alleyway she can picture him at ten years old, sprinting at top speed with a trash can lid for a shield, daring the bullies to get him.  Sometimes, when she walks along the busy streets, she wonders what he would have told her about the buildings she passes.  Has he been here?  Did he get beat up on this corner?  Did he get art supplies from this shop?  Did he sketch a woman sitting on that park bench?  (She tries to avoid Brooklyn, if she can manage it.)

And, yeah, the work is hard.  She hates working for men who don’t value her, resents every paper she files and cup of coffee she makes.  She is an agent, not a secretary, and she should be leading missions, not overhearing tales about them the next morning in the break room.

But she stays, she works, she marches on, because it’s what she does best.  Peggy Carter is a soldier.  She will kick at the world with her high heels until it changes into something better, and she will paint her lips with the blood of anyone who tries to stop her.  Steve Rogers didn’t change that, and his death didn’t, either.

Still, on late, lonely nights, she puts on an old record, takes out a bottle of red wine, and imagines that he’d be proud of her.

* * *

> _“There is not a man or woman, no matter how fit he or she may be, who is capable of carrying the entire world on their shoulders.”_
> 
> _“Steve was.”_
> 
> _“From what Mr. Stark has told me, Captain Rodgers relied heavily on_ you _.”_


End file.
